For a moment, she wanted to kill me.
I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, coming here. That’s obvious now. I should take Beckett’s advice and have him drive me to the station tomorrow. Catch the first train to Kansas City, beg Hank for my old job back at the Pepper Tree. Life won’t be easy, but Icouldsurvive on tips and my allowance from Felix. I’ll scrape by, even without Ted. But knowing Mrs. Dunlop’s greed, it’s likely she’s already let out my room, even though I paid for the week.
I settle in bed, turn on my lamp, and try to read. After the first few pages, I give up. None of the words make sense to me. My mind is far too muddled. Just as I lay my head on the pillow to go to sleep, I hear a commotion from downstairs. Something breaks. An enraged cry follows. Marguerite is up again. Panic floods my senses as I war with myself. I should go to her. Try to calm her.
I don’t.
Instead, I creep to the attic door and lock it, ashamed.
Chapter 10
I feel him before I see him. It begins as a prickling along my arms as I wake, then a cold rush of air next to my bed. The faint, grassy scent of vetiver cologne. I lie there, silently, my eyes afraid to open. His presence is as palpable as if he were a living person. My heart thuds inside the cage of my ribs. I blink. Clamp my eyes shut. Then open them again.
Weston’s form is silhouetted against the window, somewhere between ephemeral and corporeal. Watching. Waiting for me to wake. I sit up, startled. The covers slip down my shoulders, exposing my goose-pimpled flesh.
“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ve no desire to harm you.”
He moves to sit at the foot of my bed, although the mattress doesn’t sink under his weight. “I’ve come because you need to understand who I am. They’re trying to turn you against me. To frighten you into leaving.” He sighs. “I saw everything, earlier. That bit with the knife.”
I pull the covers back around me, shivering. “You saw? I didn’t know what to do. To help her. I was scared.”
“Of course you were.” Weston shrugs. “The nurse and that idiot doctor from town dismiss Marguerite’s episodes as demented ravings. But there’s a reason for her anger. Her pain. She just has trouble remembering what caused all of it.”
I could almost laugh. I never imagined I’d be face-to-face with a ghost, much less holding an entire conversation with one. This all seemslike a dream, yet I can feel my bedclothes draped around me, the draft from the open window. Have I gone insane? It wouldn’t be the first time my mind has played cruel tricks on me. I’ve had hallucinations in the past. But Melva and Beckett mentioned that others have seen Weston, too. I’m not the only one. He must be a ghost—the spirit of a real person who lived and knew Marguerite and her sisters. “Who were you to Marguerite?”
“An old friend. Something happened between Marguerite and I, a long time ago. We are tied together because of it, she and I.”
He seems to be implying they were intimate, although Marguerite was visibly repulsed by his portrait and denied that he had been her beau. He seemed far more besotted with my young grandmother in the vision I had.
My fear fades, replaced by curiosity. “I saw you, with my grandmother. In the garden. Did that really happen? Or was it a delusion? A hallucination?”
“No, not at all. It was a memory from the past, stored in time. You’ll find that time moves differently here—the walls between past and present are less brick and stone, and more like sheer fabric.” He smiles. “Iris is here, too. You’ll see her eventually. We’re both tied to Marguerite’s paintings. Her past. What did you think when you saw me with Florence, that night in the gardens?” he asks, elegantly crossing one leg over the other.
“It was shocking. It ... confused me. Upset me.”
He nods, his eyes catching the sliver of moonlight knifing through the curtains. “Because you saw something you didn’t expect. Florence had a side to her that few people saw. A passionate, adventurous side. I adored her. Even though she was already promised to another when we met, I took as much as she was willing to give me.”
“Marguerite said Florence betrayed her. Did she know about your affair? Did Claire know?”
“Yes, Marguerite knew, and it made her angry, because she saw Florence as selfish. And even though I loved her, Florencewasgreedy.Claire knew about us, but she was like the calm between two storms. Ever mediating. She just wanted everyone to be happy. There wasn’t much room for what Claire wanted, between Florence and Marguerite.”
I laugh, knowing all too well the plight of a middle child. “I understand, completely.”
“Claire was the best of them. Her father hoped we might marry. I was willing, but Florence ... she was jealous.” Weston sighs. “She wanted me all to herself. Claire knew I couldn’t resist Florence’s charms. She would have made our marriage miserable. If I had it to do all over again, I’d never have gotten involved with Florence.”
I’d seen hints of my grandmother’s jealousy and selfishness, certainly—her insistence on always hosting Christmas dinner, despite Da’s closeness to his own family. She’d pouted when Mama refused to leave us with a nanny to travel with her on her yearly holiday to France. Grandmotherwaspetty and vain. Self-centered. But I never saw her as vindictive.
I study Weston, my guard still up, but eager to hear what he has to say. There’s so much I never knew about my aunts and Grandmother. So much I want to learn. “Aunt Claire died. In 1881. Did you know?”
“Yes.” He frowns, looks away from me. “Complications of measles. Florence wrote to me. I was heartsick over it.”
So, my grandmother had stayed in contact with him, even after she’d married. “Did you move on, after Grandmother married Papa?”
“No. Florence and I still found ways to be together, through the years. Fleeting moments of happiness. James never knew about the affair. We continued meeting right up until I died.” Sadness clouds his features. “It was difficult, not having her entirely to myself. But I accepted her sense of duty. She had a family. Children. I tried to be happy with our arrangement, but I was often very lonely.”
I shoot him a wry smile. “That’s something you and I have in common, then.”
“What do you mean?”
